


Until We Feel Alright

by star_child



Series: University of Tokyo [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Dissasociation, Drunk Kenma, Dubious Consent, M/M, Morning After, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Rape Aftermath, Victim Blaming, art student kenma, frat party, it's kind of graphic pls be careful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 06:44:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6144979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/star_child/pseuds/star_child
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lo and behold, not fifteen minutes into the party, Kuroo had indeed ~vanished~<br/>He's on at least his third drink.<br/>"How 'bout it. You wanna screw around?"<br/>"Sure."<br/>What is he doing? He doesn't want to be here.</p><p> </p><p>-----<br/>or<br/>kenma's first college party ends very quickly when he gets very drunk and taken advantage of</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> again, fairly graphic sex scene, please be careful!

Kenma feels ridiculous. He’s allowed Kuroo to dress him for the first – and last – time. The outfit he’s wearing makes him look like a mini Kuroo, which he supposes is hot, but that doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t look anything like himself.

His jeans are black; ripped, worn through, patched, a chain connecting his wallet in his back pocket to one of his front belt loops. They’re tight at the bottom, disappearing into messy, partially unlaced black combat boots. Kuroo described them as Sturdy, but Kenma doesn’t really see the point.

His shirt is several sizes too big, it belongs to Kuroo. It nearly hangs off his shoulders, covers his his hips past his butt. It’s a deep red, with a thick black stripe down the middle, three bold white X’s down the middle of that. The flag of Amsterdam, Kuroo told him proudly while Kenma had his head and one arm stuck through the same hole. He couldn’t care less.

It’s warm enough right now that he doesn’t need a jacket, and he figures if he’s too cold when they leave he can always just steal Kuroo’s.

 _Speaking_ of Kuroo.

Good God he’s hot.

His own skinny jeans are black like Kenma’s, but they’re in pristine condition. No holes, no rips, just smooth denim hugging his legs. His jeans are hot, his sneakers are hot, his old band shirt is hot, and ohh that leather jacket. Damn if that isn’t the hottest thing Kuroo owns.

Kenma takes a step closer as they’re walking, hooking his hand in the crook of Kuroo’s elbow. “I can’t believe you talked me into this,” he sulks.

Kuroo chuckles. “Talked you into what? The outfit or the party?”

“Both,” he huffs.

“C'mon… it’ll be fun! Your first college party, Kenma!”

“I don’t like parties.”

“How do you know that if you’ve never been to one, hmm? Besides,” Kuroo pulls his arm away for a moment to throw it around Kenma’s shoulders and squeeze, “you’ll have me! And you’ll know plenty of people there. Yaku and Yamamoto, hell Sugawara might even be here with Sawamura or something.”

Kenma doesn’t respond. He doesn’t particularly like Yamamoto, and he’s not really close to Sugawara or Sawamura, though he supposes Yaku is okay.

“Also… I heard Shrimpy might be there,” Kuroo sings, shaking Kenma with his arm the tiniest bit.

“Shouyou?”

“Mmmhm,” Kuroo hums, looking down at Kenma with a smirk. “So if all else fails, should I simply ~vanish~ in a cloud of smoke…” the older boy makes an exaggerated hand motion on the word vanish, then his smirk widens into a full blown grin, “You can always hang out with Shrimpy.”

* * *

 

 _Fuck Kuroo_ , he thinks bitterly. _Fuck him straight to hell._

Lo and behold, not fifteen minutes into the party, Kuroo had indeed ~vanished~. There was enough time for Kuroo to fix them both drinks – nothing alcoholic for either of them yet – and get them settled on a couch – already packed, Kenma had to sit in his lap – and strike up a conversation with the person next to them. Kenma had shifted awkwardly so he was sitting sideways, not obstructing Kuroo’s view, and sat quietly through the conversation.

Not _fifteen minutes_ into the party, the door had opened again, Bokuto had strolled in with a loud announcement of his arrival, and that was pretty much it. Kuroo lifted an arm to get his attention, mumbled in Kenma’s ear that he was gonna ‘go say hi’ and kissed his cheek in the same second, and nudged him onto the couch before disappearing into the other room.

So now he’s here. Sulking. Alone. No sign of Hinata, or Yaku, even Akaashi hadn’t shown up with Bokuto. He’s alone on this packed couch in a frat house he isn’t familiar with, little to no chance of escaping any time soon. It’s too cold out for him to walk home now without a jacket, and he doesn’t really like the idea of walking clear across campus alone in the dark anyway.

Kenma pushes himself off the couch after a few more minutes of awkwardly sitting there, and begins wandering around, looking for a familiar face. No clear destination in mind, he sips at his bizarre mix of sprite and orange soda as he slips through rooms and groups of people. He spots a few people he vaguely recognizes – Seijou’s ace with the weirdly dyed hair when he was a third year in high school, a few boys his age that he thinks went to Karasuno, a girl that _might_ have been one of Fukurodani’s managers when he was a second year – but no one he’d feel comfortable starting a conversation with.

He’s snapped out of his search when he feels a hand on his shoulder. “Hey there, handsome,” he hears, and suddenly Kenma is looking up into a man’s face. _Attractive_ is Kenma’s first thought. The guy is tall, nearly as tall as Kuroo, with messy dark hair and a strong jaw. “You look lost.”

“I’m… looking for a friend,” Kenma manages to say. He’s kind of looking for a specific friend, but he can’t be bothered to elaborate.

“Looks like you found one,” the guy says smugly, and holds out his hand. “Kokuyama Tori.”

Kenma stares at his hand without shaking it, waits until it falls awkwardly back to Kokuyama’s side. All he can think is, _He doesn’t look much like a bird._

“You have a name?” he asks.

“Kozume.” He deliberates before adding, “Kenma.”

“What a pretty name.”

Kenma resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Would you like a drink? I was just on my way to the kitchen.”

He’s about to decline, tell him he’s got his weird soda mix, or some partial lie about how he doesn’t drink, but for some reason he finds himself agreeing. His current cup is practically empty anyway.

Kokuyama’s hand lands on the small of his back, warm but unfamiliar and heavy. He’s pushed more than lead into the kitchen, and stands by the counter while Kokuyama fixes them drinks. Kenma keeps looking for Kuroo, for Shouyou, for Yaku… anybody.

He looks up when Kokuyama holds a drink in front of his face. “Thank you,” he mumbles. He can smell the alcohol in this without even taking a sip.

Kokuyama leans down so they’re more eye to eye, but Kenma slides his to the side. “I’m assuming you go to school here, Kenma-kun?”

He tries not to pull a face at the use of his first name. _At least he didn’t call me -chan._ He nods.

“What do you major in?”

“Art.”

“Oh? What kind of art? Visual…? Performance…? I have a few friends in the art programs myself, but it’s never been my forte.”

“Visual,” Kenma replies shortly. He’s getting sick of this guy, more than sick of this conversation, but he realizes hotly that he doesn’t exactly have anything better to do. He takes a large gulp of his drink, feels the burn of the alcohol and finds that he doesn’t really care. “What about you?”

* * *

 

He’s on at least his third drink.

The world is a fucking whirling top, spinning this way and that way and threatening to dump Kenma off the edge. Kur– Kokuyama swims in his vision, all messy blurry lines and muddy vowels in his ears.

He has long since given up on finding his friends, if he squints just right and pushes the noise out of his ears Kokuyama could be Kuroo. He talks like him, he’s a literature major like him, hell he even smells a tiny bit like him. Of course all Kenma can smell anymore is the booze on his own breath.

“You know, Kenma-kun…” Kokuyama starts. He seems significantly less wasted than Kenma is, but he’s lost the ability to notice. “You’re pretty cute…”

“I know,” is his airy reply. People have been telling him that his whole life, it’s nothing new.

“Hmph. How 'bout it. You wanna screw around?”

Does he want… What? He kind of wants to lie down. Screw around… Lie down… Screw around, lie down, “Sure.”

Kokuyama’s hand is on his back again, much more insistent and pushing this time as he leads him toward the stairs of the house. He almost trips on his way up, stumbling over uneven steps and his own heavy feet.

His vision swims for a moment, when it clears again he’s lying on his back on a bed, Kokuyama’s body pressed against his and the taller boy’s mouth on his neck. A small gasp escapes him, causing Kokuyama to hum and shift his hips; Kenma distantly feels him grind down. The lights are off and this feels like a dream.

What is he doing? He doesn’t want to be here.

Kenma shifts a little bit, twisting his hips as he tries to weakly squirm away. Kokuyama straight up _moans_ against his throat, hips pushing so insistently into Kenma’s that he’s physically pinned to the bed. It _does_ feel kind of good, even if he’s never done anything like this before with another person, and for a moment he’s too dizzy to fight anyway.

He feels warm hands on his waist under his shirt, moving up to his ribs until his shirt is bundled around his shoulders, and he lifts his arms on auto pilot to facilitate its removal. He catches a whiff of Kuroo’s cologne as it passes over his face, and his eyes burn for a moment.

“Kenma-kun.”

He feels likes he’s underwater.

“Mm, Kenma-kun, I want you to suck me off.”

He wonders where the _fuck_ Kuroo got to. Honestly, so rude.

Kokuyama is moving above him suddenly, and then he’s moving as well, positioned on his knees, eye level with Kokuyama’s crotch. He stares blankly at it.

The room is spinning. He thinks he can hear Kuroo laughing.

He sees his hands raise on their own accord, can’t feel them moving as they fumble with the zipper on Kokuyama’s jeans. But they get the job done, push the jeans away, and he almost smiles at the rainbow plaid underwear he’s now confronted with. He hears, somewhere far, far above him, the taller boy say the words, “Gay pride, man, c'mon, don’t laugh.” He’s pretty sure he wasn’t laughing.

Kenma’s hands have fallen away completely, absolutely no motivation to continue, but clearly that doesn’t deter Kokuyama at all. His own hands come into Kenma’s view was he reaches into his boxers and pulls out his dick. _Is that what someone else’s dick looks like? Gross._

“C'mon, Kenma-kun,” he coos, pushing the tip against Kenma’s pursed lips. His eyes won’t focus. Does this guy shave his balls? That’s kinda weird.

In the end he opens his mouth for lack of better thing to do, sees but doesn’t really feel Kokuyama push into his mouth. He looks up through his eyelashes, sees the other boy’s eyes close and a smile work its way onto his lips. His hips start thrusting and this time Kenma can feel the hands that wind into his hair, holding his head in place as Kokuyama proceeds to fuck his face.

He hears a strangled choking noise after a few minutes of this, realizes it’s his own noise when he feels his lungs start to burn and sees Kokuyama’s hips have stopped moving. He’s not coming, Kenma knows that much, but he’s clearly taking his time and enjoying the feel of Kenma’s throat spasming around him. _That’s sick_ , he has enough capacity to think before he’s gone again.

There’s a knock on the door, a voice shouting. That didn’t come from above him. He can’t open his eyes and he still can’t _breathe_ , but suddenly Kokuyama’s cock is gone from his mouth and his presence is no longer in front of him. He falls forward, catching himself on his hands and coughing violently as he chokes on his own spit and tries to control his gag reflex. He really doesn’t want to puke on this bed.

“We’re a little busy in here,” he hears Kokuyama laugh from the doorway. “Room’s taken.”

He wants to say something, anything to get whoever is on the other side of the door to help him, but all he can manage is another coughing fit.

Kokuyama comes back and he tries to get away again, but he just falls backward on the bed and the taller boy takes this as an invitation. “What do you say, Kenma-kun, shall we carry on?”

He hopes to god Kokuyama is just going to finish blowing himself and leave him alone. That he’ll be able to curl up into a ball until this party ends and Kuroo comes looking for him.

No such luck, of course. Kokuyama lands on top of him, hips aligned and grinding down again. “Y'know, I hear art kids do it better. That true?”

He has no idea. He’s never done it at all. He wants Kuroo, he wants his bed, he wants to throw up and mostly he just wants this all to end.

Kenma kind of feels like he’s floating away. Nothing feels real anymore, not the bass from downstairs thumping dully in his ears, not Kokuyama on top of him, grinding incessantly. It feels like he’s watching a movie, watching this happen to someone else. He’s completely numb again, worse than before.

He watches, doesn’t feel, as Kokuyama pulls his pants down to his ankles, pulls lube out of god damn nowhere. He’s stretched – roughly, he feels that – and then Kokuyama is inside him, fast and without any sort of rhythm.

He remembers having lunch with some of the Aobajousai kids, Tooru’s friends. That Hanamaki… he’s a psychology major, spent the entire outing gleefully telling Kenma about various kinds of panic attacks. Kenma had told him about his latest assignment, about how he had to artistically portray a modern issue and he’d chosen mental disorders.

 _Disassociation_.

Light floods the room suddenly, and Kenma closes his eyes against the pounding behind his eyebrows. “… Kenma?” he hears distantly. That wasn’t Kokuyama, it came from the doorway. “Kenma!”

Kokuyama is suddenly gone from on top of him again, he’s left cold and exposed and bathed in light. He hears the sound of someone being hit, counts once, twice, three times beneath two annoyingly similar voices screaming at each other. Everything falls silent after the third blow, and Kenma finds it in him to crack one eye open.

Kuroo – actual, real, Kuroo Tetsurou and not some tall asshole lookalike – is crouched next to him on the ground, eyes wide with worry (more like terror) and a spot of blood on his lip. He lifts one hand and slowly reaches for Kenma’s face, tears gathering in his eyes as his mouth falls open to speak. “Kenma…”

“I – I didn’t – he just…”

“Do you want to go home?” Kuroo asks gently, stroking Kenma’s cheek with his thumb.

He can’t speak through the lump forming in his throat, all he can manage is a weak nod. He sits up slowly, then realizes he’s naked and turns his head away, hastily trying to pull up his pants and get them buckled.

Kuroo takes his arms and helps him off the bed, but he gets so dizzy the second he’s on his feet that he collapses against Kuroo’s chest. “Baby c'mon,” Kuroo murmurs, voice as strained as Kenma thinks his would be if he could talk. “What happened to your shirt?”

“My…?” He looks down at his chest to find it completely bare. “Oh.”

“It’s fine, it’s okay, here.” Kuroo pulls away for a moment and Kenma has to grasp the corner of the bed so he doesn’t fall. He watches Kuroo slip the leather jacket off his shoulders and drape it over his own, raises his hands to grip at the edges and pull them closer for a moment before pushing his arms through the sleeves. It’s warm, comforting in the way Kuroo’s clothes always are. “Do you want me to carry you?”

He’s going to pass out if he tries to even walk into the hallway. He looks like a fucking child right now, he knows, but he sniffles and raises his arms in a universal _carry me_ gesture. He can see Kuroo’s heart break on his face as he bends down and lifts Kenma into his arms, legs slung around his waist like a child. It hurts a bit, but Kenma ignores the pain and wraps his arms around Kuroo’s neck. He buries his face in his shoulder, trying in vain to quell the flow of tears.

He can hear the difference in Kuroo’s footsteps when they enter the hallway, feels when they go down the stairs, hears them approach the living room and almost starts sobbing when he feels them turn away from the front door and go into the kitchen. “Wanna go home,” he mumbles into Kuroo’s shoulder, but he knows it’s too muffled and quiet for him to hear.

Instead he hears Kuroo speaking, quiet but hurried, to someone who doesn’t say anything in response. Kenma is fading fast, only catches bits and pieces of what Kuroo’s saying. “Found him upstairs… some guy… fucking wasted… could have drugged…? I’m gonna… home… Tell Bo? Thanks…” They’re walking again, but Kenma is asleep before the cool night air can hit him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this kinda sucks but it's about the morning after and how he reacts okay enjoy

He’s warm, for a moment.

For one, blissful moment, he feels Kuroo’s arms around him, smells his cologne, has that full feeling in his chest that comes only from cuddling with his best friend.

Then he wakes up just a fraction more.

There’s an awful pounding in his head, beating against his skull and his eyebrows with every thump of his heart. He can feel it in his chest, his palms, fingers, reverberating through his entire being. His mouth tastes disgusting, like he’s been gargling sewage water but with a sour aftertaste that makes it painful to swallow.

Just when he thought it couldn’t get worse, the memories hit him.

Kenma lets out a broken noise, somewhere between a groan and a sob, and curls into Kuroo’s chest. He hears Kuroo give some kind of gentle murmur, then the arms around him tighten. “Baby I know, okay, I know. Don’t think about it right now.”

He focuses on the least painful to deal with part of his problem. “Mouth… tastes…”

“Here.” The arm over Kenma’s waist lifts, and he feels Kuroo roll away the smallest bit to grab something. “Drink this,” he says quietly, and Kenma manages to take the bottle and bring it to his lips without opening his eyes. It’s water, obviously, and Kenma takes small sips until the taste in his mouth goes away and he doesn’t feel like he’s going to choke on it. “Kitten I have some Advil, do you want it?”

He makes a noise in his throat that’s supposed to be the word ‘yes.’ The bottle rattles, and Kuroo presses three pills into his palm. “Thought you were only supposed to take two?” he mumbles while he swallows all of them.

“I figure you can use it.”

Kenma finally manages to open his eyes. “Wanna brush… my teeth.”

“Okay. Okay, go ahead, I’ll be here when you get back.”

He sits up shakily, finds himself in Kuroo’s room. The pale yellow walls, a few taped up pictures in a small group across from the bed. Kuroo hoped to fill the whole wall with them, one day.

Kenma pushes himself to the edge of the bed, stares at his legs as they spill over and his bare feet rest on the floor. He’s wearing nothing but boxers and one of Kuroo’s shirts, but he’s okay with this. A bit chilly, as he leaves behind the Human Furnace that is Kuroo Tetsurou, but not overly exposed.

His legs are shaking as he stumbles to the bathroom, glances at the pullout couch out of habit to see Bokuto buried in his nest of blankets. He closes the bathroom door softly and leans against it for a moment, doesn’t even _think_ about turning on the light.

Kuroo lives alone, officially. According to his rent, his contract, he has no roommate, no one who pays half the bills. But he’s got like, six toothbrushes in his bathroom. His own, obviously, a black one. A red one for Kenma, a white one for Bokuto, a blue one, for the times Akaashi stays over with Bo. The other two are orange and a light teal color, for the rare times Daichi stays overnight and when Oikawa used to as well. He doesn’t, anymore, but Kenma can’t really think about that right now. He grabs his own toothbrush and scrubs at his mouth until his gums are sore.

He stares at himself in the mirror when he’s done, his own eyes burning into his skin. His neck, God, his neck.

There are dark spots on his pale skin, mottled purple and red standing out in random areas. There’s one on the corner of his jaw that’s mostly just red, like raw scraped skin, that looks wildly different from another one below, on his collar bone. Dark purple and splotchy, more like a bruise.

He’s never had a real hicky before. Certainly none from sex, though one time he spent two hours on Kuroo’s lap, more dozing than watching the movie playing, while Kuroo lazily kissed at his neck until he accidentally left a hicky. He’d laughed when he realized, and Kenma had angrily worn scarves and hoodies and refused to let Kuroo kiss him until days after it had gone away.

These are not love bites. These were not given to him by someone who loved him, or even cared for him. That guy doesn’t even _know_ him and yet he had taken something so _precious_ –

“Hey, c'mon man, I gotta pee,” Bokuto mumbles from the other side of the door with a knock.

Kenma jumps nearly a foot in the air. He lowers his head so he doesn’t have to look at himself in the mirror anymore, focuses instead on the spots where his knuckles have turned white from gripping the edges of the sink. “One moment,” he rasps out, eyes clenched shut.

“Oh, Kenma… I didn’t realize… never mind, take your time.” He hears Bokuto walk away toward the couch, shuffle around for a minute, then the front door opens and closes again.

So Bokuto knows then. At least partially. Just how much does he know? Just how much does _Kenma_ know? He slowly plays through the night in his mind, grip on the sink getting tighter and tighter until his fingers ache, he’s tense, nauseous. He remembers Bokuto coming in, Kuroo leaving. Remembers meeting that guy… Kou… Kouyama? Kokuyama. He remembers meeting Kokuyama, getting insanely drunk insanely fast, remembers going upstairs…

His stomach is clenching.

_“You’re pretty cute…”_

His throat burns.

_“Wanna screw around?”_

He lurches over to the toilet and empties his stomach into it. _Oh God…_ What the hell did he _do_. He’s never had sex. Never, not once, had only even went on dates a handful of people, kissed even less. His Thing with Shouyou back in high school, a date here and a date there with Akaashi, a month or two his first year of college with a kind but overall too loud girl… He’s kissed Kuroo a handful of times: for dares, for spin the bottle, on New Year’s and birthdays and sometimes when Kuroo came home after an exceptionally long gap at university.

He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know if there’s anything _to_ do. He weakly reaches up to flush the toilet, then pushes himself back to sit against the bath. _Fucking shit_. His lower back hurts, and he almost throws up again. Kenma pulls his knees to his chest and puts his head down. He doesn’t want to move for ten years.

But it only takes ten minutes for Kuroo to come after him. “Kenma?” he calls gently from the hall, “I know you’re shutting down in there.”

He wants to say something in response, something serious like, 'wouldn’t you be shutting down too?’ or cynically witty like, 'actually I’m throwing _up_ ,’ _anything_. But all he can do his lift his arms to wrap more fully around his head.

“Do you want me to come in?”

He doesn’t know. He curls up tighter.

“I can leave you alone for a while longer, if you’d like.”

He doesn’t _know_.

“It’s just… It’s been almost twenty minutes, and I didn’t hear the shower or anything…”

_He wants it all to end._

“…Kenma?”

He means to say, “I’m here, I don’t need you to come in,” but all that comes out is Kuroo’s name, broken around a sob, and then the door is open and Kuroo himself comes in, quietly sitting down about a foot away from Kenma.

“Hey, Kitten.”

He wants desperately to lean into Kuroo’s side, to take comfort in his familiar form and feel safe and protected. But he’s _terrified_. The thought of even coming in contact with him makes Kenma’s skin crawl. But Kuroo seems to know. He keeps his distance, makes no move to reach out or touch him, doesn’t even look at him after a few more seconds of close study, just tilts his head back and looks at the ceiling. Kuroo waits patiently, until Kenma is able to get his sobbing under control.

When he does, he swallows his fear and pushes himself closer to his friend, nudging under his arm and into his chest. Kuroo wraps his arms around him, holding his head and stroking his hair. “Baby I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have left you like that, I should have at _least_ sent someone to hang out with you…

"S'not your fault,” Kenma sniffs. “I shouldn’t have gotten so… so _drunk_.” He curls up tighter, berating himself for his stupidity. “I don’t know what I was doing, I was so stupid… It’s all my fault…” He’s crying again; ugly, snotty tears that make his stomach heave and his chest ache. “I’m – I’m sorry that I’m s – such a m – mess,” he stutters through the tears, hands curling into fists around the material of Kuroo’s shirt.

Kuroo hushes him, then says in a soft voice, “Of course you’re falling apart, darling. You’re human. Sometimes humans only know how to crumble.”

That stops him short.

Kuroo is not known to be particularly deep or profound. He’s very intelligent, always has been, and he gives good advice, but he’s majoring in literature, not philosophy. Kenma is so surprised that his tears and gasping grind to a halt.

“There is no such thing as a perfect heart,” Kuroo whispers.

He is absolutely _floored_. He just sits there, stunned into silence, trying to process the _poetry_ that just came out of Kuroo’s… Wait a minute. Poetry.

“…Kenma?”

“Who did you just quote?” he asks even though his voice breaks in the middle of it.

He looks up in time to see Kuroo blush a bit, confirming. “Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles, leaning forward to hover protectively over his friend. “It’s not important, and I’m sorry that I let this happen to you, Kitten.”

Kenma sniffs. “What do I do?” he thinks aloud. “How am I supposed to deal with this?”

Kuroo doesn’t offer him an answer, just rocks them back and forth.

“How am I even supposed to get up, and leave this apartment? Go to class? I feel so… so _ruined_ –” He cuts himself off with a sob, trying not to choke on a gasp when Kuroo pulls him into his lap.

“You’re not ruined,” he says firmly, “You’re _not_. Just because some low life _prick_ took advantage of you, it doesn’t make you any less. Not in my eyes, not in anyone’s eyes.” There’s an unspoken, 'And if it does…’ hanging in the air. “I love you, Kenma. You don’t have to do this alone.”

**Author's Note:**

> my baby.. protect him..  
> up next: iwaoi breather as they have coffee with some gossipers


End file.
